They turned at Jack’s street, walking to Third, then down a little more than halfway to his building, Christine consulting her watch. It was two-ten. Just about right, give him a few last minutes’ grace. These stone steps must be hazardous in winter, she thought. She pressed Jack’s bell on the brass plate. The answering buzz sounded almost instantly.
Her original impression remained: this was a well maintained building, one of the better ones. It seemed there were still decent rentals at relatively reasonable cost left in this fast-changing city, though scarce as hen’s teeth.
Jack stood looking down at them as they hiked up. “I knew you were coming so I baked a cake,” he said. “I’m kidding. Hello, Christine, good to see you again. Rodney …”
“I suppose I should have baked a cake,” she said. “I brought this along instead.”
“Ah, Christine …”
She watched him peeling off the protective foil. His hands were deft and quick. They were good hands, shaped well, long-fingered and with the nails clipped short and clean. He was such a dark-skinned man, with crisp dark hair extending from the rolled-up sleeves of his blue and white striped shirt to the wrist, where it came to a stop. He was probably six feet in height, but he gave the impression of being taller. It was because he was thin, markedly thin, and his bones were large enough to accommodate more weight.
He looked strong and capable, a sinewy type. He had a face that was grave in repose, sometimes even somber, but when he smiled it became open and boyish. He was smiling now, holding the plant in both hands, and he really looked delighted. “It’s a beauty,” he said. “Oranges, Christine, thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot. But you — ”
“It’s just a thought, nothing at all. And this is from Rodney. Here, you give it to him, Rodney.”
“My God, I feel like crawling in a hole. I didn’t think of you bringing anything, for God’s sake. I hate to mess up this nifty paper, it seems a shame. But an ashtray — one that won’t spill over, how great, how great. Rodney, it’s beautiful, the colors I like, it’s much too nice for a slob like me. Christ, you should both be spanked. I’m horribly embarrassed, I never thought you’d arrive bearing gifts.”
“Mine isn’t a gift, it’s just a token. Ah, this is a lovely room, Jack. Simply luminous with light.”
“I’m afraid it’s really precipitate, my asking you here so early in the game,” he apologized. “There’s no way I can get all that crap off the floor until I find something to put it in. I hope you can close your eyes to it. And I want to scrap that godawful coffee table and get a better one, and I need chairs, a lounge chair and two straight-backed ones. What do you think of the sofa? It’s a rather light color, the new stuff, but it’s stain resistant, so — ”
“It’s perfect. It’s not near the windows, so it won’t get sooty. It’s a beautiful fabric, sturdy too, it will wear well, Jack.”
“I’m kind of proud of it. It looked pretty sick before I had the reupholstering done, as a matter of fact decidedly tatty, but it has good lines and I couldn’t see investing in a new one. Listen to me, I sound like an old biddy.”
“You don’t look like an old biddy. You look very masculine and handsome and pleased with yourself.”
“Oh, I am, very pleased with myself. I keep opening and closing the shutters at the windows, like a witless fool, I’m nuts about them. I stretch out on the sofa and smirk at the ceiling, all that fantastic rococo, like a ballroom. Ain’t that something? Now if I can only fill in with the right items, get that shit off the floor and some seating other than the sofa I’ll be able to marshal my thoughts at the typewriter.”
He stood there, pounding one fist against the palm of the other hand, all energy and enthusiasm, so lean and tall and rangy, so dark-browed and lanky. She must have been out of her mind to let him get away, Christine thought, and wondered what bones of contention, mutual or unilateral, had led to that divorce. “About the stuff on the floor,” she said. “Rodney and I saw something that would be fine for this room, would you be interested? An armoire. Not for hanging clothes, you understand, but the kind of storage piece you want. Compartmented, large, with two big, deep drawers. I’m sure you could shovel all those things in with room to spare for more.”
She pointed. “Against that far wall. With a chair on either side of it. Very decorative, Jack. Grand Rapids, admittedly, but really very tasteful, with carved doors and brass handles with a dull finish.”
“And not pricey,” Rodney said. “I wanted it, but Chris said it was too big for my place.”
“Sounds fantastic. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. How much, do you remember?”
“I do,” Rodney said. “Five hundred eighty-nine. I still wish I could have had it.”
“We saw it at Sloane’s. Well, their outlet store. You can get very good buys there, and no wait for delivery because they’re not floor samples. I don’t know whether you want to pay that much.”
“No no, it fits into my budget okay. Will it still be there?”
“If it isn’t we can find something else.”
He threw her a glance. “You said ‘we’?”
She laughed. “I didn’t mean to take over. Well, yes, I guess I was thinking along those lines. You’d better tell me to mind my own business, I’m a bossy type.”
“I’d give my eyeteeth to have you take over. Think twice before you go any further. You don’t know what you might be letting yourself in for. Okay, you’ve thought twice? Thanks very much, I accept your offer of help, Christine.”
They were all laughing now, Rodney saying that she should go in the business of furnishing flats for helpless bachelors, get a fee for her services. “Seriously,” Jack protested, “I really can’t ask you to go through all that again, Christine.”
“I enjoyed helping Rodney, I’d enjoy helping you, Jack. It’s just that I’m an old hand at this kind of thing, I have a good feel for where to pick up hard-to-find odds and ends. I know you’re keen to be of serene mind.”
“It would certainly be a Godsend,” he admitted. “I have no imagination at all and I’m always intimidated by salesclerks, I feel rotten when they spend their time with me and I don’t buy.”
“A writer with no imagination? Impossible.”
“That’s as far as it goes, plots and all that. All right, sit yourselves down and I’ll get our drinks.”
“First, may I see the rest of your place?”
“Sure, come on. Rodney?”
“Yes — well, do you mind if I look at your books in the shelves, Jack? You have a smashing library.”
“Not too bad. Go ahead. I don’t lend, I’m a crank about that, but I just might make an exception in your case, Rodney.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t borrow. I’d just like to browse through them, if I may.”
In the hall between the rooms Jack said he was going to put up a few prints. “Take the curse off its being so narrow. This is okay though, just the way it is,” he said of the kitchen. “Maybe an iron rack for pots and pans, but that’s about it. As I said, I don’t make a production over meals.”
The yellow wallpaper brightened the windowless room: it was cheery and cozy, with a white ice cream table against the wall. “You could have a couple of chairs for the table,” Christine suggested.
“Why a couple?” he countered. “There’s only one of me.”
“Just for the sake of symmetry.”
“For breakfast, you mean. I stand up at the counter.”
“I used to do that too, when I lived alone.”
He put his hands in his pockets, considering. “Maybe chairs, yeah. What kind should I get?”
“Ladder backs, rush seats. Simple and countryish. They cost very little.”
“You know where to find them, I gather.”
“I grew up in this city. I know where to find anything, everything.”
“Are you really going to take time out of your life to give me aid and succor?”
“I have a lot of time.”
/> “I would like to see that storage piece you spoke of. Where did you say it was?”
“Eighty-fifth between Second and Third.”
“The chairs, the ladder backs. I could latch onto those at the same time, maybe?”
“Could be. Would you like to take a run over tomorrow?”
“I’d like very much to take a run over tomorrow.”
“Then how about meeting me there at around ten-thirty?”
“It’s a date.”
“I hope it will fill the bill for you. I think it’s lovely. I like your centerpiece on the table, Jack.”
It was a glass liter filled with dried flowers. “It’ll do,” he said. “Understated. And with the rack for pots and pans — I thought I’d get some with copper bottoms. Mostly just for show. As I said, I don’t bother much. I can make a pretty good pot roast, though.”
“With a bay leaf?”
“Of course with a bay leaf. Eye of round, I don’t dig brisket.”
“Neither do I. This is fun. I like being here. May I see the bedroom?”
“Rather forward of you, but always glad to oblige.”
“Oh, stuff it,” she said, smiling, and followed him. “Voilà,” he said at the door. “I don’t plan to fuss this up, what’s here is all that’s going to be here. It’s too minuscule to do much with.”
“It’s cute. A narrower bed would give you more walking space, though.”
“I bought this from a friend, sight unseen. I was a little teed off, but it wasn’t his fault. I just took it for granted that it would be a studio-sized job.”
He shrugged. “You don’t turn down a bargain, though, and it’s nice to stretch out, though I’m practically touching the walls when I do. It’s not much of a room, but it is a bedroom and you can close it off if it looks too messy.”
“I doubt you’re a particularly messy guy.”
“If I’m in a hurry I can be slipshod about things. The closet is crammed, but anyway it has shelf space.” He showed her. “See? Not all that bad.”
He shut the door and faced her. “Christ, I’m a drag. You must think I’m a jerk. Giving you the grand tour like it was Schonbrünn.”
“I asked for the grand tour.”
“There will be a small fee for the guide.”
“Pay you later, my handbag’s inside.”
“Listen, I made Planter’s Punch, I hope you have nothing against rum?”
“Planter’s Punch? How festive. You went to some trouble, Jack.”
“Are you kidding? This is big doings for me, it means a little something. Jack Allerton is giving a party. Some party. Christine, I’m not much of a socializer, at least these days. Lots of reasons for that. I need friends, I’m on my own and no responsibilities. For some reason I was lucky enough to meet you. Obviously you have another kind of life.”
“Not all that much.”
“When you’re lonely yourself you’re prone to think you spot it in others. No no, delete that, for God’s sake. What a half-assed thing to say.”
She gave him a cordial smile. “Not so half-assed. Who isn’t lonely sometimes? Come on, let’s get out that Planter’s Punch. Rodney will think we’ve fallen out a window. I’ll see the bathroom later, before I leave. I love this apartment, Jack. I hope I’ll be asked here again. This whole place reminds me so much of Ninety-second Street, an apartment I had there. Gee, I was happy fixing it up. I must tell you about it sometime. Remind me.”
“I will.”
In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator door. “There’s a tray on the floor, Christine. Yeah, behind the table. You want to put it down on the table and I’ll set the pitcher on it.”
Then he began pulling things out of the icebox. “Caviar,” Christine murmured. “Aha.”
“Poor man’s caviar. Lumpfish, Romanoff’s best. Are you insulted?”
“I didn’t expect Beluga, my dear. What do you think I serve? What can I do to help?”
“You could open the crackers.” He handed her the box. “You’ll find a plate for them in the overhead cabinet, the one on the left.”
She circled the crackers on the plate, reached for the cream cheese he had taken from the fridge. “All right if I put this in the center of the plate?”
“Great. Silver in the drawer under the counter, ditto napkins.”
“Serving plates?”
“Ah, yes. Also in the overhead cabinet. This seems to be it.”
“I’ll take this in, you can bring in the drink tray.”
“What did I ever do without you?”
They carried things inside. Rodney lay, hands folded under his head, on the sofa. He looked very much at home. “Get up,” Christine ordered. “Three of us have to sit here.”
“I’ll bring over the desk chair.”
“No, this is cozier. Sit down, Jack, there’s loads of room. Just shove over a bit, Rodney.”
“What is this we’re to drink?” he asked interestedly. “It looks smashing.”
“It’s a punch, called Planter’s,” Jack explained. “Lime juice, Angostura bitters, sugar and a good, heavy-bodied rum. Like it?”
“Super. Super indeed, Jack.”
“Anyone want more sugar? I generally err on the tart side.”
Nobody wanted more sugar. Rodney commented on the crackers. “I see these are English biscuits.”
“Carr’s — they’re popular here.”
“And caviar — I say, I shouldn’t have had lunch.”
“You’ll manage to eat your share,” Christine said. “No, that wasn’t a crack, Rodney. You’re a growing boy, you’re expected to eat up. Jack, the punch really is superb. I have a feeling you do Tom and Jerrys in the cold weather. Or Irish coffee.”
“Sometimes. I go for cold weather drinks, though, you’re right about that. Toddys and hot punches. Mead, negus, things like that.”
“I gave a wassail party one Christmastime. It was a great success.”
“I wish this was a working fireplace. We’d have a ball, drink our oldtime quaffs in front of a roaring fire. Applewood. Maybe I’d send to Santa Fe for piñon. Ever smell piñon burning?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s no other aroma like it. You feel like eating its smell, I find it almost hallucinogenic.”
“You’ve been to Santa Fe?”
“Yes, it’s another world. Getting too arty, of course, but still a kind of fantasia, with the luminarios during the year-end holidays, it’s bewitching.”
“I used to read Sigrid Undset. Kristin Lavransdatter. I was fascinated with the food and drink passages. There was plenty of it too. They were eating so much all the time. Boars’ heads and great haunches of meat, birds hot off the spit, and flagons of wine.”
“I love visiting the chateaux in the Loire Valley,” Rodney said. “You want so much to have been part of it. Rowdy communal meals at tables set for a hundred, you can imagine the din. Dogs snatching at table scraps and tossed bones. Serving wenches hurrying to and fro, bottoms being pinched. So bloody colorful.”
“And no bathtubs.”
“Oh, yes, those funny little measly tin things, of course very fancy for the gentry. I can imagine the plight of the lower echelons. Bloody lot of privation, frightfully sad. Still, no dreary telly.”
“Don’t knock television,” Jack protested. “I don’t know what I’d do without it. After sweating it all day at my Olympia electric I’m glad to sit in a bleary-eyed stupor in front of the tube.”
“Some things are worth watching, you have to admit. Your Masterpiece Theatre, for one thing, Rodney.”
“Polished soap opera. Still, yes, it’s awfully good.”
“It certainly makes Sundays special,” Jack agreed. “I think it’s one of the big things in my life. I’m not kidding. I doubt I could be fond of anyone who wasn’t as hooked as I am. I don’t know about you, but I find myself going off into Cockney at the drop of a hat. My frozen entrees call for a preheat of 400°, or the bulk of them do. I light the
match, turn on the oven and mutter, Tour ‘undred.’ Even as Hudson. Or Rose.”
“Louisa’s my girl,” Rodney said dreamily. “Louisa Trotter, Duchess of Duke Street. I’d give a lot for a go with Louisa.”
“I guess lots of men had a go with Louisa in her time. That series got me to reading Evelyn Waugh again. She was Lottie Crump in Decline and Fall. And Vile Bodies.”
“I was a big Waugh reader,” Jack said. “It was the early books, though, then he got religion and began to get solemn-serious. That’s my opinion, anyway.”
“Graham Greene got religion and he didn’t get solemn-serious.”
“My favorite Waugh is A Handful of Dust,” Rodney said enthusiastically. “That’s a book.”
“No arguments about that, Rodney. But can we stop talking about writers? It makes me squirm, out of — well, fear. I try to stack myself up with popular writers, people whose work doesn’t throw me for a loop. If I start thinking of all the good ones, I’m inclined to feel like going to stand in a corner. One reason I don’t read the book sections when I’m working on something. I just get sick. Dazzling encomiums, and here you are just trying to do a workmanlike job.”
“Which means that you care very much about excellence and are probably a born and scrupulous craftsman.”
“Excellence and craftsmanship don’t always bring in the checks.”
“But since we know it can — ”
“It would be nice to toss off a flashy bestseller and then get down to brass tacks.”
“I guess lots of people had that idea, only it didn’t pan out that way. I haven’t met him, but my friend Clover is on intime terms with a writer. Or a former writer. I guess he doesn’t do much of it these days. He was a journalist in Europe, where he was born, but apparently hasn’t had much success at authoring here. An old story, he was a Jew in Nazi Austria, the usual horrors. Clover never married, but then she met Anton, and it’s just as if she were married to him. She can’t be, because he’s already married and it seems there’s been no talk of divorce. It’s interesting, though. More than once she’s referred to him as her husband, and I could tell she didn’t even realize what she’d said.”
“Is she happy?”
“She certainly seems lighthearted. I don’t know about happy. Somehow the word doesn’t trip lightly off the tongue. I don’t mean just for Clover, I mean for anyone.”
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 10